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both hands and draw from heel to tip i n a

smooth, over and down motion along the underside.”
    Was it his

imagination, or did Tristan just step closer? Sweat beaded at his temples as he

gripped the file and indicated the proper procedure.
    Clearing his throat he

said, “You don’t need to exert to o much pressure.”

His voice sounded constricted as the words rasped out. “Next slip it in the

hole of the gage and check the fit. You wanna also check the thickness and

width to make sure there’s no difficulty penetrating.” And

there was that word again…
    L uke quickly finished checking his spike and removed it from

the vise. Grabbing the plank of soft pine on the table, he lined up the shaft.

“To test the tip, you want to line up the wood. You shouldn’t need to use too

much pressure. A good point will penetr ate easily,

sliding through the wood.”
    Fuck. Is it a thousand degrees in here?
    Once he was finished,

he stepped aside and nodded in Tristan’s general direction for him to try.

Tristan fit the climber into the vise, tightened, measured, filed, and

sharpened with little issue. He quickly completed the

process with the other climber and removed the equipment. “Done.”
    His voice was clipped

and indifferent as though they were merely strangers, one orienting the other

with job and safety procedures. Good. That wa s likely

the best way to go about business, regardless of how much his gut seemed to

squeeze in protest.
    They left the hanger

and Luke led him through the forest to the practice tree. He sat on a nearby

stump and latched up his straps, rings, and fasteners ,

monitoring Tristan’s actions to see that he was keeping up. When he glanced at

his profile it was set with focus and there were no signs of anything other

than determination.
    Luke secured his

harness and approached the tree. “Bell’s at the top. You got t o ring it a dozen times before we let you play with the big

tools. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
    He flicked his lanyard

around the trunk and planted his spikes in place. Taking quick steps, he

shimmied up the hundred-foot tree in a matter of minutes. Fisti ng the rope of the bell, he gave it a hard ring and

shimmied back down.
    Landing on the ground

with a crunch that jolted his bad knee, he smothered the urge to wince. “You

ready?”
    It would likely take

Tristan a day or two to build up the technique and stami na to reach the bell. Most guys weren’t given saws until their second or

third week of training.
    Tristan stepped in

front of the tree and checked all his gear. Without comment, he mimicked Luke’s

example and swung the lanyard around the trunk, locking it i nto place. His first step was smooth and he wasted no time

leaving the ground.
    Luke frowned as he

crossed the halfway mark without pausing for breath. He was speechless when he

heard the echo of the bell. His lips twitched, wanting to praise Tristan, but h e bit back any compliments.
    Tristan shimmied back

down in no time. His spikes cut into the soil as he reconnected with solid

ground. He nodded in Luke’s direction, not boastfully, just assertively.

“Eleven to go.”
    It took only a few

hours for Tristan to ri ng that bell twelve times.

Luke knew his body had to be feeling it. Even though he’d met his quota, he

wouldn’t be playing with tools today. His limbs needed to be rested and sure.

There could be no room for slip-ups fifty feet in the air while operating a power tool capable of killing a man.
    When he was making the

final trek down, Luke’s father approached. “Been hearing a lot of ringing. What

number’s he on?”
    Eyes focused on

Tristan’s body smoothly descending, he said, “This is twelve.”
    His dad let out a s low whistle. “That’s a first. Think he’s trying to prove

something?”
    Maybe. But it wasn’t

about proving what his dad might think. He lied anyway. “I think he’s trying to

prove he’s capable and prepared to